


Consolation

by ivyelevast



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyelevast/pseuds/ivyelevast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is uncharacteristically affected by John Openshaw’s murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consolation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on “The Five Orange Pips” case. Some of the text--particularly the early dialogue--is taken from the original narrative.

Despite his brilliance, my friend Sherlock Holmes is overly fond of indulging in self-destructive habits―habits which only grow in risk when applied during one of his black moods. Naturally, if an interesting enough case manages to distract him, these habits are discarded for a time, if only to be replaced with another set.

While on a case, Holmes focuses all of his energies into reaching its culmination, so it is atypical of him to remember to eat, or so much as rest. Thus, the responsibility for his well-being too often falls upon me, and though I am glad to own to it, Holmes is the world’s most infuriating man when it comes to his well-being. I am constantly shocked at how he manages to keep up such an immaculate appearance when considering these factors. It does not help my endeavours to keep him _alive_ , for God’s sake, when the man himself does not want to be coddled.

My readers will no doubt be familiar with the unfortunate tale of young John Openshaw, and so will know that his untimely death left a black mark on Holmes’ record. However, not many, I dare to say, realise how deep of a mark it left on the detective himself. I will not waste time writing down the particulars of Openshaw’s predicament, but will instead begin with the morning after our client had visited Baker Street.

After attending to my toilet, I came down from my room to find Holmes already partaking of breakfast. “You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” he said. “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.” I was almost visibly relieved at the sight―all signs of my friend’s previous dark mood had disappeared―yet he was not so distracted as to run off without a bite to eat.

It was not long before our pre-hunt peace dissipated; the headline declaring the death of our unfortunate client destroyed it swiftly. As I read the article, I kept a close eye on Holmes. True to his words on the softer emotions, throughout the passage he retained a careful mask of sympathy while holding up a professional demeanour. If I had not known him for as long as I have, I doubt I could have perceived the latent turbulence building up within him.

Once I finished reading the dreadful news, I said nothing more, and so we sat in silence for a long time. Signs of visible emotion were finally springing up on Holmes’ features, foretelling another dark mood, perhaps one more destructive than any of its predecessors. I prepared myself to speak some comforting words, but Holmes no doubt anticipated me, for he spoke up first.

“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said in a surprisingly steady voice. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death―!”

I had never seen my friend quite this vengeful before, and though I admit it roused some sentiment of admiration in me, I was far more anxious at the self-directed loathing I could sense in the speech. Following his outburst, Holmes sprang from his chair and paced uncontrollably about the room, scorning the murderers. Though he spoke out loud, I was certain that he was not addressing me, not precisely. Unable to pull myself together, I only managed a short, mechanical question regarding his destination before my friend bounded out the door, alone.

Having already mentioned my concern for Holmes’ well-being, one can imagine the sort of self-berating I put myself through for not following him when I had the chance. Oddly enough, it was not so much his intention to trap a gang of factually murderous men that bothered me.Rather, I had the discomforting impression that Holmes had not completely processed the situation. That is, I am not being fair―I mean that, in some sense, Holmes believed that he had indirectly murdered Openshaw. However, he was ardent upon avenging his client, so any consecutive depression would be forestalled.

I dreaded not being around when Holmes would ultimately sink, and―I knew―sink he would. I have never doubted Holmes―he always finds the solution, for better or worse―but it was only a matter of time before that inevitable black mood forced its way to him.

My readers are under the impression that I left for my medical practice while Holmes spun his web. I can now unabashedly admit that I did no such thing. Indeed, I rescheduled all of my appointments for that day and remained waiting at Baker Street. I did not even bother visiting my house―even if Mary had not been at her mother’s, I do not think she would have worried. Both of us are well aware that I belonged to Sherlock Holmes long before I vowed to love her. Baker Street will be forever my home.

Holmes dislikes letting anyone know his plans for entrapping criminals―similarly, he rarely deigns to inform me what he does on these outings, or at what time he could possibly be back. Hence, I had no choice but to wait for Holmes, attempting to distract myself with a well-read sea novel I had discovered in my old room. I resolutely positioned myself so that I could keep an eye on both the door and the morocco case residing on the mantelpiece. If Holmes had such designs, I wished to be the first to stop him. Any other day, I would have characteristically withheld my protests―tonight was different.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Sherlock Holmes entered our sitting room. His appearance quite honestly startled me. Whereas it is not unusual to see the man in a roughened state due to one of his many ingenious disguises, it is another thing entirely to see his handsome figure essentially over-pale and worn. My shock barely lasted, however, and I hurriedly stood to make certain that he would not suddenly collapse.

Holmes immediately waved me away, however, and instead made for the cupboard, taking out an orange. For a moment, I believed that he meant to eat it, though I was not surprised when he squeezed out the pips instead.

“You’ve traced the gang, then?” I asked, watching his movements. Once provoked, Holmes easily related what he had found out about Captain Calhoun and his gang, even stooping to explain what he meant to do with the orange pips. As he spoke, I carefully watched my friend, attempting to gauge his inner thoughts. Unfortunately, if there is a mind-reader between the two of us, then it is definitely Holmes. I had no such luck.

Hence, I fell back on what I knew best―caring for him as much as he would let me. I almost made to go to the sideboard, but was distracted by Holmes falling back into his armchair, staring glassily into the fire. My friend was balancing on a precarious edge―if I physically brought food up to him, it would be acknowledging that he was immersed in another of his moods, but if I could verbally convince him to eat, I could still hope to keep him in higher spirits.

Moving to his side, I kneeled down, placing a hand on the armchair, close to where his own lay. Holmes’ grey eyes flicked to the hand, saying nothing. I took this as encouragement, mentally taking a calming breath.

“Holmes, would you eat something?” It did not take a consulting detective to see that he had not had anything since that morning. Still, I was uncertain whether he would perceive my plea as the sign of affection that it was. He has too often ignored my protests, attributing them to my history of treating patients rather than my seemingly-platonic love. Plunging into uncertainty, I took his hand in mine, squeezing it once. “Please,” I said, releasing his hand but allowing it to remain near his.

Holmes continued to stare at my hand, his gaze occasionally straying to his own paler one. I held my breath for so long that I could have fainted had not Holmes finally moved from his chair, heading towards the sideboard. With a ferocity that betrayed him, my friend ripped a piece from the loaf of bread, devouring it and washing it down with a long draught of water.

Relieved, I stood with a quiet sigh―I had admittedly not expected the strategy to work. Typically I am useless when it comes to retrieving Holmes from his melancholy.Under these circumstances, I often wonder whether I am of any use to the man at all. Still, I think I managed to surprise the great Sherlock Holmes that night―whether it was my hand in his or something he had traced in my voice I cannot tell, but it had been enough to rouse him.

“I believe, dear fellow,” he said once finished with his impromptu meal, “I shall go wash up. Then to bed, I think.” I merely nodded, not trusting myself to keep the disbelief out of my tone. If Holmes believed that I accepted his words as truth, then he must think I am a fool. Compared to Holmes, statistically I rather am, but I spent far too much time in his company to pretend to be like the Watson in my own writings. No doubt that that Watson leaves my readers with no little annoyance―I dislike him myself, but he is a useful tool the literary Holmes is free to use at will. It is fitting, I think.

Thus, once Holmes closed the door to his chamber, I stayed in the sitting room instead of retiring to my own room. I stretched out on the settee with every intention of keeping vigil lest Holmes interest himself in the morocco case. Granted, I do not have my friend’s ability to remain awake for days at a time, but I was too determined and shaken to even consider sleep. Keeping myself distracted with memories of past―more successful―cases, I stared into the fire for hours, adding logs whenever it dwindled.

It must have been at least two in the morning when I heard steps before Holmes’ door and the slow turn of a knob. Lying down as I was, I closed my eyes, breathing deeply at steady intervals. I doubted that Holmes would believe that I was truly asleep, but I figured he could be convinced of a light doze. At first he may have indeed been convinced, for he took great pains to make as little sound as possible. I was fully prepared to “wake up”, however, the moment he got too close to the mantelpiece. Much to my astonishment, my friend stood before the settee for a solid amount of time.

What with my eyes closed, I could not determine whether or not he was facing me, and, to be brutally honest, I dreaded what I would find if I checked. Attempting to keep my breaths even, I erased any notion I had that Sherlock Holmes was watching me sleep. This, however, was proving exceedingly difficult.Ironically enough, it was Holmes that saved me from embarrassment. Eventually he perched beside me on the settee, and I exploited the moment to pretend to have been jostled out of sleep. Blinking groggily (and making an effort not to overdo it), I glanced up at him, just as he was looking down at me. To this day I do not know if he had been convinced of the act, but if he had been, then it only proves how out of sorts he had gotten.

Attempting a light tone and somewhat failing, Holmes asked, “I say, Watson, do you think there’s room enough for me?” This made me blink in earnest, but I was not so surprised as to let the opportunity to have the detective close pass me by. Keeping my movements slow so as to both feign sleepiness and to hide my excitement, I moved onto my side and pressed my back against the cushions. Without another word, Holmes lay down supine beside me, being thin enough to fit in the space. It would be a lie to say I was not disappointed that he did not face me, though it was frankly a miracle that this was happening at all.

I could smell soap from when Holmes had taken a bath, so he had held true to some of his words. Obviously he was not sleeping and had not bothered to try, for he wore a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers. Still, his feet were bare and the cloth rumpled, and I wondered whether he had not tried. My gaze had been caught on his chest, where the top buttons of his shirt were undone, when Holmes finally spoke up.

“You thought I would take cocaine.” It was not a question, nor was it an accusation, so I felt no qualms in answering truthfully.

“I feared Openshaw’s fate would be enough to drive you over the edge.” I shifted, finding it hard to relax without pushing against my friend in an overly intimate manner.

Holmes smiled bitterly―too darkly for my liking. “Yes, self-annihilation would not be a very fitting end, would it? Hardly poetic justice.”

I was admittedly angered at this casual allusion to suicide, and my temper flared against my better judgment. “Holmes, you may be the most brilliant man of my acquaintance, but you are an utter fool.” Undoubtedly, _I_ was the fool for saying such things so soon after the fatal end to the case, but Holmes has the innate ability to surprise me at the oddest of moments.

The man actually had the nerve to laugh! Neither sardonically nor self-derisively, but freely and easily. Holmes is a natural actor, and I am his leading fan―but even I am not blind to his technical flaws. If there is one thing that he cannot imitate perfectly, then it is honest laughter. He was not acting now.

“Yes, my dear Watson,” he whispered, turning to face me. Much to my delighted shock, he pushed his face into my shoulder, folding his limbs between us as though searching for warmth. “That I am.”

Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his waist, making ourselves more comfortable now that we were taking up less space. Perhaps I was finally feeling the tug of fatigue, for it took me far too long to realise that Sherlock Holmes was looking for consolation, and not from any of his destructive habits, but from me, his friend. For once, he _wished_ to be coddled.

In response to this epiphany, I tightened my hold and lifted one hand to stroke his hair. Holmes let loose a quiet sigh at this, whether in relief or in consent. I did not know what to say that would not frighten him away, so instead I dropped my lips to his forehead, barely kissing the skin. The gesture had to be chaste enough to be forgiven. Instead of stiffening as I had predicted, Holmes put one of his tucked hands onto my collarbones, tracing them methodically.

There would be much to be said in the following days, and much to be admitted, but we were content then to remain silent in our embrace. Indeed, I had the singular experience of feeling Holmes drift off to sleep on my chest. He must have been exhausted, and, eventually, so was I, but, true to my vigil, I kept an eye on him for as long as I could.

The case continued to haunt him, however, long after he sent the letter to Savannah regarding the arrest of Captain Calhoun and his two mates. It was only after we had learned that the ship, the _Lone_ _Star_ , had never reached Savannah in the first place did a sort of peace reach my friend.

“It is a fitting end, I suppose,” commented Holmes, leaning in his armchair pensively. “It is almost as though we had no hand in the affair at all.” Despite that I believed myself fairly expendable when it came to solving cases, it always struck me curious that Holmes rarely ever said “I”, but rather “we”. I was never certain whether this was done out of habit or if he honestly believed that I served a higher purpose than that of a dog in our investigations.

Either could have been true, but Holmes had been rather ardent in proclaiming exactly what he thought of me the night before, so such notions did not bother me as they had recently. True to the literary Watson, I am steadfastly loyal, and it comes as a pleasure to serve my friend.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” continued Holmes, apparently unaware of my inner monologue. “Revenge is more often found in criminal acts rather than detached investigations.”

If Holmes had been looking at me, he would have instantly detected the scepticism in my expression. Still, I admit that I was not hard-pressed to get into a discourse with him regarding the amount of “distance” required in detective work. Indeed, my mind had strayed to other things.

“It is a pity, though,” I said thoughtfully, keeping my tone neutral, “The sight of you plotting vengeance was rather arousing at the time.” This was an effective way of getting his attention, for he immediately granted me with a wide-eyed look.

Not waiting for an answer, I left the sitting room and made for my bedroom, climbing the steps at a moderate pace. It was a moment or two before I heard the hurried rustling of someone climbing out of an armchair, and I allowed myself a triumphant smile.


End file.
